


Five Times Jon Stole a Statement and One Time He Didn't

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (statements and cigarettes), Angst, Episode Related, M/M, References to Addiction, episode 146 spoilers, okay so the plus one is twice as long as the five combined, sue me it's the jonmartin bit I got carried away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 05:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: Look,someonehad to write it.SPOILERS FOR MAG 146!!!





	Five Times Jon Stole a Statement and One Time He Didn't

1.

He didn't even realize what he'd done, the first time.

He'd gone to the store to pick up a few things - mainly food staples that were missing from his kitchen after six months gone. He'd felt...  _ off,  _ it was true, a strange itching need hovering behind his eyes that he couldn't quite place the cause of, thoughts rather more scattered and drifting than he'd like. And he was blinking more than usual. But it wasn't anything to raise an  _ alarm; _ he'd just woken up from a coma,  _ of course _ he felt off.

So he didn't notice anything odd about the way his feet led him to the produce section without a clear purpose, pinned it to idling thoughts of making a salad for dinner. 

And he didn't think it was odd to be concerned about the man mopping the floor, who for all intents and purposes looked happy with his life but whose slightly anxious glances at the aisle around him betrayed some latent fear.

And he didn't think it was odd to ask if the man was okay. That's just what you did, when you saw someone who was upset and you were trying your best to be a caring person.

So he asked the man how he was doing. And when the man replied he was okay, for the most part, he'd just had a weird experience a few months back that was setting him on edge, Jon smiled slightly - because that's what you do when someone is upset, you  _ care _ \- and said, "Why don't you tell me about it?"

And the man did.

It wasn't until the he was crying, curled in on himself as he stood there in the aisle, that Jon realized what he'd done. 

He stuttered out an "I'm sorry," when the man finished his tale, and ran.

2.

The second time he caught on faster. Oh, he still thought nothing of the aimless tread of his feet over the London streets, the wandering path as he tried to pull the cotton wool and confusion from his mind. He was occupied with thoughts of Melanie, and Basira, the aching pain of his shoulder and whether or not it would start bleeding again. 

But when he was face to face with the woman with the story, he knew even before he opened his mouth what was going to come out. And so she told him, and she cried, and he felt stronger and clearer and more awake than he had in weeks by the time she finished. He apologized as she turned to stumble away, but if she heard him she gave no sign.

Back at the Archives he peeled his bloodstained shirt away from his shoulder, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. All that remained of the wound was a pale scar.

3.

By the third time he recognized the signs. The aching need, the emptiness that nothing of this world could fill. The tired distraction that he knew would only disappear with the sharp clarity of a new statement. 

He tried to fight it, he really did, but somehow he still found himself standing in front of a man crying maggots, with unpleasant memories of his own encounter with worms rising in his mind.

He hated this. Hated taking these people's will away from them, hated dropping them straight back to the heart of their trauma, hated that he'd be seeing them in his nightmares for the rest of his life, or the rest of theirs. He didn't know why he kept doing it, didn't know why he couldn't stop it, didn't know why, even though he was aching with the guilt of it, it still felt good. 

It helped, though. After the man had moved on, after Jon had apologized profusely to no effect, he found he was more awake than before; more aware of his surroundings, better adjusted to being back in a place that wasn't all soil and squeeze. The cobwebs were cleared from his head.

Cobwebs. He fingered the lighter in his pocket. It was something to think about, that was for sure.

4.

By number four he stopped apologizing. It didn't do any good. 

He knew what he was about the second he left the Institute, knew the distraction and the weakness and the hunger. Knew the detachment from his thoughts as his feet took over, instinct leading him to a small cafe nearby. He didn't feel...

He didn't feel like  _ himself, _ but he didn't feel like  _ not _ himself, either. He felt like a himself he had never known before that he was rapidly becoming, and it scared him.

But he  _ needed _ this. 

Jess Tyrell cried like the rest, and he thanked her for it. Thanked her for staying in the cafe for just a moment after her date left, just long enough for him to  _ Ask. _ Thanked her, for pulling him out of the detachment and lassitude he'd been in since trying to look at the Lonely, and left her sobbing into a cheap paper napkin as he walked slowly back to the Institute, lost in thought.

5.

Floyd was  _ different. _ Floyd was  _ useful.  _

Jon wasn't even feeling the weakness and confusion that normally signaled he needed to feed. He was just curious, and Floyd could satiate that.

He still wasn't sure if it was  _ him _ doing the asking. But this one he could let slide with a minimum of guilt, even so. He'd be dead in a few days, if the Dark had its way. Floyd's nightmares would be short-lived. 

Basira was upset, of course, but she didn't try to stop him. She was falling too, down a different path than he was but just as surely. He could see it, in the way she looked at him and the way she listened. It was something he probably ought to address, at some point.

But denial was such a comforting prospect. She probably wouldn't believe him.

+1.

Going to Hill Top Road had been a mistake. A huge,  _ colossal _ mistake that had gained them nothing and nearly lost them everything.

Annabelle Cain hadn't even been there. She hadn't needed to be, there were so many webs stretched throughout that place. Jon had seen through them eventually, seen the subtle lines connecting and pulling, forcing the Archival staff toward the heart of the house and a fate they couldn't escape. Still, it was a near-miss thing, and going against those threads had nearly killed them all. The others are resting now, recuperating in the Archives, but not Jon. Jon is...

Jon is hungry. Jon is _ ravenous, _ hollow with the need for a statement, a  _ story  _ to fill the emptiness that has been left by all the effort he expended at Hill Top Road. 

He still doesn't know if he's being controlled, when he's like this. When he stops thinking and lets his feet lead the way. There had been no answers in that place. 

He stays in the Institute this time, feet leading him up the stairs to the upper floors, hunger pulling him forward. Although- 

_ Hunger _ is the best metaphor he can come up with to describe this need, but it's not entirely accurate. It's not the shaking weakness of malnutrition that comes over him if he goes too long without reading a paper statement. It is sharper, harder, more insistent. It is  _ craving. _

He's felt this, before, back when cigarettes were his hardest drug. He knows the feeling of addiction.

He'd managed to quit those, once, long before Leitner and the lighter and his relapse. He'd like to think he could do so again with this, if it weren't for the webs pulling him along and making him ask, always ask, even when he doesn't want to. He'd like to think he's still strong enough. 

Because no matter how much it might feel like it, he  _ doesn't _ need this. Not like he needs paper statements. Those are sustenance, _ food, _ those he would waste away without. He doesn't think he's there yet with the live ones. Not yet. 

Jon doesn't realize where his feet have taken him until he is standing outside the door, already turning the handle, listening to the gentle clicking of a keyboard from inside. 

He pushes the door open.

"Go aw-  _ Jon?" _ Martin bolts upright at his desk, eyes wide and startled. "What are  _ you  _ doing here?"

Jon steps into the room quietly, leaving the door hanging open behind him. The soft ticking of the clock is the only sound as he crosses the room. He stops in front of Martin's desk, staring at him for a moment before speaking. Martin stares back, expression caught between annoyance and bafflement at Jon's behavior. 

"You have a story, Martin." 

Martin's face hardens, eyes narrowing. "And I'm  _ not _ telling you. Not now." 

"I need to hear it, Martin."

He pushes the keyboard away, lays his hands flat on the desk. "So, what? Are you just going to rip it out of me? _ Force _ me to tell you, like you did with that poor engineer?"

"Jess Tyrell."

"If you like. I never got her name. You _ really _ did a number on her."

Jon blinks for the first time since entering the room. "I'm not entirely sure that was  _ me." _

"What do you mean?" There's something guarded in Martin's voice, though whether it is distrust or hope, Jon cannot tell. It throws him for a loop, though, and for a second the need to make Martin understand - to erase that distrust, or keep that hope - outweighs the need to hear his story. 

"It's- I can't really control it, when it happens it's like- I, I mean Basira and I have been talking, and the Web-" 

"Oh for God's  _ sake,  _ Jon!" 

For a second he is transported back to a different room, with a different monster at the door. 

_ We're literally hiding from some kind of worm... queen... thing! _ He almost smiles from it. They had been so new to it all.

"Don't try to dodge responsibility for this! The  _ Web _ isn't making you terrorize people, why  _ would _ it? This is Beholding. This is the  _ Archivist, _ Jon. This is  _ you." _

"It doesn't feel-"

"Then it's addiction, or instinct. Look,  _ one  _ might have been mind control, but Daisy left me that tape, Jon. You've done this again, and again, and _ again, _ and at some point you just have to admit that it's all  _ you!" _

He is shouting by the end of it, and his eyes are damp. Jon swallows harshly.

"Even if it is, I still don't think I can control it. Martin, just standing here, talking to you, it's like- it's painful, I  _ need _ this,  _ please-" _

"Don't." Martin puts up a hand. His eyes are closed, and he's breathing heavily. "Don't beg me, Jon, not like this. Not  _ for _ this. You have to- you have to  _ fight it. _ I can't-" A tear slips past his closed lids, and he brushes it angrily away. 

"Martin..."

_ "Don't. _ ...Look, if you're already so far gone that you can't fight it, what's the point of all this, eh?" He opens his eyes, gives a weak smile. "If you've stopped fighting, why am I still trying? I've already lost."

"Don't say that."

"But it's the truth. You _ know  _ how I feel about you, Jon. And I don't exactly have many other people in my life that I care about, anymore. If you're gone... there's nothing left for me to come back to."

"Do you even still want to come back?" It's a question, but there's no insistence behind it. He's far too scared of the answer for that. 

_ "God, _ yes." Martin chokes out a laugh. "I'm getting used to it, you know? But I still miss you."

_ Then why did you leave?  _ The question burns on Jon's lips, but he doesn't ask. 

"I miss you to."

Martin nods. "I can't, though. Not now. What I'm doing, it's... it's too important."

"But you won't tell me."

"No."

"Martin, I n-" 

_ "Stop it, _ Jon!" The fire is back in his voice in an instant, eyes flashing. "Look, I'll tell you eventually, okay? But don't 'Archivist' it out of me!" He makes air quotes. "I  _ can't  _ tell you now, I can't tell  _ anyone, _ no matter how much I want to! And I-" he subsides, breath hitching on an inhale. "I  _ do _ want to tell you, Jon. I'm still...  _ I _ haven't stopped fighting."

"Then just-"  _ tell me. _ The words are on his lips, and he sees them reflected in the beginnings of betrayal in Martin's eyes as he realizes Jon has not stopped craving. If would be so simple, so easy, so  _ satisfying _ to ask. To  _ force _ the answers out of Martin, to draw out every last secret and half-truth and finally learn why he left. 

To force Martin to relive some of the worst memories of his life, to betray his trust, to be the monster he's half-convinced he already is. 

It would feel so, so good. But if he does that, he loses Martin forever. More importantly, he puts the person he cares about the most in a situation that is painful and quite possibly traumatic, against his will and with no way to escape. And he can't- he doesn't-

He  _ won't _ do that to Martin. No matter how much he wants to see him in his dreams. 

He takes a deep breath, changing the words as they form. "Then  _ please,"  _ he says, and it comes out breathless. "Promise me you'll come back. Some day."

"I will, Jon. I promise.  _ I will."  _ Jon's shoulders sag with relief and the exhaustion of holding himself back, and Martin's brow furrows. "Are you... alright? You look awful."

"Thanks." It comes out exactly as sarcastic as he intends, and Martin rolls his eyes.

"No, really, when was the last time you slept? Or ate something that  _ wasn't  _ someone's fear?"

"It was..." his hands are shaking. He recognizes this, recognizes the itch. "It's not food or sleep that I need, Martin. If I walk out of here, I'm probably just going to find myself in front of another stranger, hearing their story."

Martin's lips press together. "You can't let yourself do that, Jon."

"I know."

"Isn't there something else you could do? Read a statement, or something?"

"It's not the same."

"But it's  _ something." _

_ Eat an apple. _ The voice drifts from a long time ago, from shaking hands and Georgie's shoulder pressed warm against his own when he first tried to quit smoking.  _ It takes just as long, and keeps your hands busy. It's not the same kind of hit, but it might help. At least it's something. _

"I- I suppose I could... try. It would keep me occupied, at any rate. But there's no guarantees it will help."

"Just- just try, Jon. Please."

"I am trying, Martin." He flicks his gaze up to Martin's face, to pursed lips and a fierce expression. "But I'll try harder."

"Thank you." Martin is still standing behind his desk, but he makes a movement like he wants to reach out toward Jon before pulling himself back. "You don't have to do this alone, you know." And before Jon can get his hopes up too high, "I can't be there for you, not right now. But you need  _ someone." _

"I-" Denials rise, claims of not having anyone to turn to and not wanting to put them in danger. But that's just more excuses. "Okay."

Martin sighs. "You really ought to go now, Jon. You're not the only one dealing with horrors."

Jon nods, lips twitching in what really wants to be a smile, but can't quite manage it. "Stay safe."

"You too, Jon. You too."

The door closes softly behind him.

~~~~~

He reads a statement, sitting on the Archives' floor with files scattered open around him. And then he reads another. And another. By the fourth, the desperate hunger has faded to a more controlled hollowness, and his head has started to clear.

He's done it. Successfully stopped himself from taking a statement, diverted that horrible instinct in a slightly more harmless direction. 

Jon shudders, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

He stopped himself. He  _ chose _ to. 

Which means it was his choice to not stop himself, all those times before. No more blaming it on the Web. It was  _ him. _ He'd taken those statements of his own free will. And he'd  _ liked  _ it.

He takes a deep breath, head dropping forward to rest on his knees. 

It was him, and he is a monster. But he knows, now. All his little denials and attempts to shift the blame have been stripped away. And if it lays the responsibility firmly on his shoulders, it also gives him the agency to do something about it. He can stop himself, he's just proven as much with Martin, and he  _ will _ stop himself, too.

It doesn't matter how good it feels, how  _ satisfying _ it is to draw someone's story out of them. It isn't worth the pain it causes them, isn't worth the guilt, isn't worth the nightmares.

Isn't worth losing the few people he has left that still care about him.

Jon straightens, clapping his hands against his knees before scrambling to his feet. He'll need a system - a checklist of symptoms he can look out for, a pile of paper statements nearby in case he feels himself slipping, someone he can call to talk him down if he goes too far. Not Martin - not yet. He can't intrude more than he already has today. Daisy will probably be willing to help. 

He nods to himself, determination and a new sense of purpose drawing a faint smile to his lips as he leaves the room.

He can do this. He'll figure out a way.

He has to.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no personal experiences with addiction, so I apologize if I've written anything insensitive or inaccurate.
> 
> That being said, the "eat an apple instead of having a cigarette" bit comes from my grandfather, who used that technique when he quit.


End file.
